


How Do You Go On, When in Your Heart You Begin to Understand?

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Blackmail, Comrade Charkov Sends His Regards, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deepthroating, Disturbing Themes, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Seriously this is fucked up, Twisted, references to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19309819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Seven months after the trial, Charkov pays Valery an unexpected visit to revive the past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is about the characters of the HBO show, just to avoid any possible confusion.  
> As the tags imply this story is dark and twisted, containing the following triggers [extreme dub-con scenarios - twisted h/c - emotional manipulation / emotional abuse - references to past sexual abuse scenarios - references to psychological torture - illness - generally disturbing themes - sexual content for Ch02], and therefore is rated E and tagged as non-con, because the line between extreme dub-con and non-con is very thin. 
> 
> I am aware of the fact that this story may not be everyone's cup of tea and am fairly certain that there's something more to your liking among the other 4 million works AO3 currently hosts.
> 
> **A huge THANK YOU to everyone who contributed to this story <3 You know who you are <3**

**How Do You Go On, When in Your Heart You Begin to Understand?**

*****

 

Wind races through the streets and raindrops clash against the nicotine-fogged windows, an ugly yellow. Valery wakes with a start. It’s dark outside, so he must have fallen asleep at one point, right here in his chair. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and puts his glasses back on, blinking into the gloominess the dimmed lights create. Ever since returning to his flat he cannot stand the brightness of the bulbs, so Valery has covered every single one with a cloth.

_Meow._

His cat sits in front of the rubbish bin, unemptied for nearly as long as he hasn’t slept. The smell speaks of it – screams it right into his face. Minutes turn to hours; hours easily turn into days in a world reduced to nothing. He’s going to empty it – then, later, after he has fed the cat. Valery does that immediately, afraid that otherwise, he’ll forget it yet again. Even this small task exhausts him, drains so much energy that sometimes he has to sit down again. For a moment he watches the cat devour the food and listens fondly to the sounds she makes. Then, he lifts up the waste bin and leaves his flat, pressing the door tightly shut.

Once outside, he closes his eyes and spreads his arms, a serene smile playing at his lips as he stands there in the half darkness, and for once it’s not his own tears that wet his face.

For a second, he feels content. For a moment, he feels alive.

Light and carefree – until the frantic screaming of a horn brings him back to reality. Valery stands in the middle of the street, bright light blinding him, urging him to jump. A second ago he had stood on the sidewalk, the waste bin still in his hand, had he not? He jumps out of the way not a second too early, almost falling down on the ground. He’s got no explanation for how he ended up in the middle of the street, can’t even remember having walked at all, or setting down the bin? But he must have–? With his identity drifting into nothingness the strangest of things happen to him.

Valery shakes his head and returns back inside. His legs are like lead as he climbs the stairs, his body disobeying his mind’s commands more than ever.

*

The door to his flat stands ajar, just a little bit. He had shut it; he always does – or has he not? He’s so, so certain – just as he often had been. Valery wrinkles his nose and steps back inside, greeted by the familiar stale air, heavy with old smoke.

His cat comes to greet him as she always does, curling her tail around his legs with a noisy beg for attention. Valery smiles, following her into the main room, quite determined to give her all the attention he possibly can give.

“Murka,” he coos, happy when she answers him with a loud _meow_.

It’s beneficial, for both of them as running his hands through the soft fur as never failed to calm his nerves. Before his inner eye, he already sees himself sitting in the wing chair, the cat snoring softly in his lap whilst his hand ran her back up and down. The image brings forth a soft sigh of apprehension and pleasant warmth of the sort Valery can’t get enough of. Of late, he’s always freezing.

Within a heartbeat, all apprehension dies. Valery comes to a sudden halt when he that he’s not alone. A gasp of shock disrupts the silence. Otherwise, Valery does not make a sound at all, rendered to speechlessness by the other man’s presence alone. Without seeing his face, he knows who he is, has dreaded him to come for him all the many months. Valery’s gaze falls on the table where now two glasses sit, accompanied by a bottle of cognac, or so at least the label says; two packages of cigarettes lie next to the bottle, one package red, the other blue. The writing on them isn’t Cyrillic.

_Foreign._

The decadence of power. Valery sighs.

“Is this how you greet old friends, Valery Alekseevich Legasov?” Charkov says, turning around as if Valery is the long-expected guest. As if to serve as a reminder, he wears the same suit he had worn on that specific day seven months ago; the same tie, the same white shirt. What is worse, however, is his aftershave, reeking of repulsion. 

The cat rubs his head against Valery’s legs, begging for the promised attention. " _Friends_ ..."

Charkov lifts an eyebrow. "Yes, friends. Of course, we are. After all, you don't have many to choose from these days,” he is saying and every word feels like choking hands closing around Valery’s throat.

 _“Ks-Ks-Ksss, come here.”_ Valery sees his cat hopping towards the sound and when she’s close enough, Charkov bends down to stroke her head. "The only friend still left..."

Valery’s blood runs cold. The implication isn’t lost, and he’s certain Charkov knows that he understands. It doesn’t stop him from speaking the dreadfulness out loud. "A pity, truly if anything should happen to her," Charkov tells him, pushing a pack of cigarettes across the table towards the empty chair. “Sit down.”

Valery ignores the gracious gift, lighting one of his own cigarettes as he falls into the chair. “What do you want?” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Charkov _tsks_ in disapproval. “Looking after an old friend, I already told you so. Perhaps, I felt the need to dwell in the beauty of memories of days long gone by? You know, I still think fondly of the day when I saw you last, presenting you the opportunity of friendship –”

 _‘The opportunity of friendship.’_ Valery snorts, undignified. He remembers the smile on Charkov’s lips, twisted and wretched, the detached look in his eyes. “A pact with the devil – that’s what you presented me with.”

“A pact with the devil? Legasov, Legasov.” Charkov shakes his head in amusement. “Name it as you will, in the end, it makes little difference. The pact, the opportunity – if I am not entirely mistaken, you did accept.”

So Valery had. To protect Boris, to protect Ulana – to keep them safe, as best as he could. Upon the memory, bile rises up his throat, filling his mouth with the sour taste of it. His mind immediately connects the taste with something else, forcing Valery to gag. It’s as if he relives the moment yet again; feels and smells it, tastes it upon his tongue.

“I thought, perhaps you care to know that –”

There’s sickening excitement flittering through Charkov’s eyes. Valery sees and suddenly understands. “I am not the only one,” he breathes, shocked.

It’s wretched; it’s killing him more than any of his own sufferings would. Perhaps, he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is, his hands shaking uncontrolled under the table. He had confessed they hadn’t played a part in this; he had done everything they wanted from him. Everything! And yet it hadn’t been enough. Valery blinks against the flashes of light in his head – darkness and light, darkness and light, alternating in a rhythm way too fast.  

Charkov sighs, leaning forward. “Perhaps not.” The smile is indulgent. “Does it matter _now_ , if at all?”

Valery shakes his head. Charkov ignores the silent plea of silence, lighting one of the foreign cigarettes. “You might be surprised, how willing your friends were to protect you.”

 _Stop!_ Weak sounds of his mind, if at all – the words don’t leave his mouth. Instead, Valery watches the smoke dance in the air, for the simple reason to look anywhere else than on Charkov’s face.

“Khomyuk did understand, cooperating beautifully after initial fighting, not unlike yourself. I may even go so far to tell you she enjoyed herself; the wetness between her thighs at least spoke of it.” The flash of a smile, followed by silence just long enough to have the words sink in. Then Charkov speaks again and Valery braces himself with the last remains of strength he finds. He knows what comes next, dreads it with all his heart yet he remains silent. “Shcherbina’s reaction, however, was quite impulsive.”

_Boris. His name is Boris._

Yet Valery is glad that Charkov does not use Boris’ name. It was theirs – it still is, so at least Valery dares to hope.

The cigarette has only burnt down by half. Charkov eyes the full ashtray, a look of repulsion on his face. He lets it fall on the ground, stomping it out as if it is the most normal thing to do, returning back to his monologue. “Perhaps I should not have been so surprised by Shcherbina’s reaction. After all, the bond between the two of you was quite ... intimate. Or do you beg to differ? No?”

Valery keeps his silence, watching Charkov taking a sip of cognac. “Good. Interesting though how violently he refused to believe and acknowledge the truth of my words. Ahh, Legasov, I would have spared him the details of our little encounter but I fear I had no other choice. A description of some quite specific way your mouth works brought enlightenment.”

Tears of shame and betrayal shot into Valery’s eyes. He feels his stomach clench, then retches into the empty wastebin next to him. Charkov narrows his eyes in disgust, but otherwise doesn’t let the matter rest. “Oh, the understanding in his eyes … a stunning sight to behold. Priceless, even. And now that I think about it –” A sigh, a sip of Cognac, a forlorn smile. “Regret is such a strange concept to me and yet, and yet –”

A lump begins to form in Valery’s throat from the way Charkov looks at him. Below the stoic calm another sort of ugliness springs to life, something far more dangerous. He’s seen it once before. “Shcherbina, despite all his years of training never truly appreciated our nation’s greater scheme of … unconditional sharing. I still wonder what his reaction would have been if he saw you so … obedient.”

Valery slams his fist on the table. “What do you want?”

“Nothing that I do not already have. Almost.” Charkov’s fingers tap against the table, controlled and measured. “Be that as it may. It has come to my attention that Shcherbina has become quite reckless of late. Strange for a man who has only months to live in slow decay. Perhaps, a quick death would be a kinder fate.”

_A lie._

_A malicious lie._ “No death by your hands did ever speak of kindness.”

“This pains me to hear for we both know it is not true.” A pale, shaking hand reaches out across the table, fingers brushing lightly against Valery’s cheek. Valery shudders, then forces himself to stillness, allows the fingers to ghost along his cheekbones, across his lips. “Does this not speak of kindness?”

 _No._ It speaks of mockery.

Valery bites the inside of his cheek and suddenly the hand is gone.

Vagueness becomes a certainty in the wake of Charkov’s words. Valery has drawn hope and comfort from the illusion that everything he has done helps to keep the other safe. So perhaps they all had. There is no hope, there never was – not in a world in which they are nothing more than puppets on a string.

Charkov stands, walking around the table until he stands behind Valery, placing his hands on his shoulders.

The calm serenity of the moment puts Valery on edge, the months of isolation taking its toll. If they beat him there would be at least pain, something, anything else than the paralyzing numbness of his mind. Apart from that, there’s not much else for him left. Fear and anxiety, yes, insomnia – and cancer. Amidst it all, morbid desperation now begins to blossom, with Charkov’s thumbs pressing between Valery’s shoulder blades. He is struggling against the trick his mind begins to play on him. There’s no kindness in anything Charkov says and does, Valery knows that. And yet he’s closing his eyes to lose himself in the lie of it. There’s no strength left in him to fight; even when there was Valery did not fright to keep his friends, the man he loves safe.

“See?” Charkov says, the word a susurrating whisper, sweet as honey. He’s pressing his lips against the top of Valery’s head. It’s too much to bear; it’s too close to how Boris used to whisper his goodbyes after moments of tenderness to him; too close to everything that’s so dear to Valery’s heart that for a moment he allows the illusion to prevail. Even though he knows well that Charkov is playing him, he cannot bring himself to refuse. With closed eyes Valery leans into the touch of Charkov’s hand, not unlike his cat often does, opens his mouth when a finger seeks entrance, licks it like the obedient fool he is with tears streaming down his face.

“A most unfortunate coincidence if anything happens …” Charkov whispers, never stopping what he’s doing. “Every crime of mine is one you are guilty of. I hope you understand.”

“Yes.” Valery’s head drops in defeat. 

Charkov’s gaze wanders towards the phone, sitting silently on a small table. “Call him.”

Fear wins over the burning need to see Boris again. A last spark of defiance flashes in Valery’s eyes and he’s surprised that his voice does not even tremble. “And if I don’t?”

A shrug of shoulders, a laugh, enough to remind Valery of his own foolishness. “You know the answer to your question.”

Face now buried in his hands, Valery mumbles, hoping that he’s right, hoping so desperately beyond hope. “He’ll suspect a trap.”

Valery doesn’t see Charkov’s smile but hears it. “Of course he will. Nevertheless, he will come. As I said before, he has become a foolish, reckless man. So perfectly predictable.”

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to Sobolevskiy & dank-hp-memes for helping me with this chapter. And also thx to everyone who left comments/kudos and got excited with me over this story somewhere else. It means so much <3
> 
> **Warning for extreme dubious content**

*****

_ Click. _

The moment Valery hangs up the telephone, he buries his face in his hands. He sits on the sofa, right next to the little table where the telephone stands. Tears shot into his eyes and he desperately tries to prevent them from falling but even as he does, he feels the wetness against his fingers and there’s, exactly, nothing he can do about it. The words he just had said sting with such violence that his throat tightens and he struggles to breathe in the wretched silence.

_ ‘Boris – ‘ _

_ A moment of disbelief. ‘Valera?’ _

_ ‘I … please … come.’ _

_ ‘Has anything happened?’ _

_ ‘Yes. Don’t.’ Valery hopes that Boris gets the hint, perhaps deciphers the subtle chance of his voice. After all, he’s always been the cunning one. _

_ ‘Your apartment?’ Valery sees Charkov nodding. _

_ ‘Yes.’ _

In his former life, Valery had drawn comfort from the silence. Then, before he has forgotten what true silence even meant. Of late, his mind is never quiet. Snippets of conversations long gone by coming to him unbidden, voices he simply wishes to forget whisper to him and ensnare him, even in his sleep. If it’s not imagined sounds he hears, it’s the constant flashing of lights that plagues him. Right now, it’s everything combined. Valery sees Boris face in his mind and behind him, the light is flashing –  _ light, dark, light, dark _ . He sees the terror in Boris’ eyes and he hopes despite hope that he will refuse to come, even if he knows he will with all his heart.

Valery’s hands travel from his face across his head, pressing his fingertips into his neck in futile hopes to divert his mind from the constant ache. Once there had been a time when it helped, once, then – precisely before Chernobyl happened. It feels like a lifetime ago. It isn’t. He can’t draw comfort from his pinching fingers, wishing his nails were long enough to draw blood so that he might succeed to divert the pain.

He thinks about Boris; of the words, he would say to him, of what Boris might say in return. And then Valery jerks, remembering that he is not alone. How long has he been sitting there?

_ A minute? _

His head spins from the sudden movement.

_ Half an hour? _

He cannot tell.

Charkov looks perfectly composed. “Legasov, Legasov,” he shakes his head in amusement. “What a severe lack of hospitality to forget and ignore your guest.” A sip of cognac, the hint of a smile.

“I –“ Valery is about to apologize for his behavior but then his gaze falls on the revolver, sitting on the edge of the table.

It hadn’t been there before – or?

Or? Again, it’s as if Valery’s mind plays tricks on him. He simply doesn’t know, doesn’t remember.

“No.” A breath of utter disbelief disrupts the momentary silence.

“No need to worry.” Charkov looks at the revolver, then at Valery again. “As long as you are cooperative you do not need to trouble your mind with such trivialities.”

This remark hits Valery where it hurts the most and Charkov knows it perfectly well.

_ Trivialities. _ He’s ready to jump at Charkov, at least in his mind he is, ready to kill him. Not with the revolver but with his bare hands.

_ What … if Boris isn’t cooperating? _

_ What … if Boris is losing his temper? _

Valery knows he will, eventually.

Valery’s blood runs cold. He still remembers Boris’ outburst in the container and the broken telephone all too well, those words that had nearly cost him everything – his status, his reputation, his life.

Valery presses his arms against his thighs to prevent them from trembling. “And if I don’t?”

Charkov raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Just allow your mind to think about what could happen to those dear to you.” A sip of cognac, the sound of the lighter, and then Charkov speaks again. “Did you know that Khomyuk presents the latest results of her research in Kazan at the Conference being held in the honor of Aleksandr Arbuzov every five years? Oh, I forgot, how should you be aware of that? My apologies. But let me assure you that her career has been prospering in the past few months.”

Valery looks abashed.

“You find that surprising, don’t you?” Charkov goes on, exhaling smoke into the air. “You are an even greater fool than I thought you were. Genuine and devoted service to the state has always proved to be quite beneficial, in many different ways. Ah yes, my apologies, memories of that sweet smile of her got me carried away. Surely you aren’t all too interested in such talk. If I am honest, it is not what I wanted to tell you at all. Kazan … it is indeed a beautiful city with a prospering scientific community, nevertheless, the streets have become quite dangerous of late, or so I have been told. Wouldn’t it be a pity if something unfortunate disturbs her nightly walks? She still enjoys them, don’t you think?”

_ She does _ . The stars, the vastness of the universe. Its calm serenity and the mystery of the unknown – that is Ulana’s world.  

Valery’s voice sounds weak, even to himself. “Stop it!”

Charkov inclines his head. “So we have come to an agreement?”

Valery draws in a deep breath, then hears his teeth grinding. “Yes.”

Charkov beckons him closer with his eyes, and on shaking feet, with a heavy heart Valery goes. He knows what is expected of him, knows what it would be like, even now, seven months later he still feels the maddening ache in his jaw whenever he thinks of it yet in Boris’ presence it will be just awfully worse.

_ An arm's length away. Within reach. He could … he must. _ Instead of even daring to attempt such folly, Valery stands next to Charkov’s chair, arms heavy like lead.

One of Charkov’s arms slips casually around Valery’s waist. After the initial shock comes anger, then nauseating nervousness.

_ What if – _

The train of Valery’s thoughts is interrupted by the treacherous sound of his creaking door. He turns, just as much Charkov’s possessive arm around his waist allows it. Boris mustn’t see him like this, it races through Valery’s mind, must not – and then his eyes fall on Boris, and everything else is forgotten; Charkov’s arm around his waist, the compromising position, all doubts, and worries.

Valery’s mouth drops open and he feels his eyes instantly go wet.

_ It cannot be. _

Boris is a shadow of his former self. The coat, dark as the night, is several sizes too big, his cheeks are hollow. A rough calculation in Valery’s mind estimates a loss of twenty kilos, if not more. Though Boris stifles his coughing, it’s obvious how much energy the climb to Valery’s flat has cost him.

_ And what for? _

Valery wonders how much strength is left at all. He wishes to run to him, to wrap his arms around the man he has come to love and whisper those words of comfort he had told the silence into his ear.

A solemn tear runs down Valery’s cheek. It’s in that moment that Valery truly, ultimately understands. Their story of entwined fates, now separated but tied together nevertheless is about to end.

_ Half a year? _

Their gazes meet across the distance. Valery sees the shock in Boris’ eyes, loathing burning so brightly that he trembles in Charkov’s hold; yet underneath the anger longing shines through, and incredible sadness. It goes right to his heart. Valery regrets each quarrel they have ever had, and those they had not; yet what he regrets most of all are the words he had never said when there was still time; words of friendship and affection, words of respect and appreciation – words of love.

_ Three months? _

The tears stream down his face before he even manages to choke out Boris’ name.

“Boris.”

“Valera.” Boris’ voice is  _ croaky. _

It is death Valery sees on Boris’ face if he dares to look closely enough.

_ Four weeks? _

The side-effects of cancer treatment are no mystery to Valery. He’s suffering from them as well, but hardly as much as Boris. Why him? Why Boris, who was far more often away somewhere, organizing something than Valery, living a far more healthy life.   

_ I never told you; what you are to me. Never told you … that I love you. _

Charkov’s grip around Valery’s waist tightens as if he openly claims what he supposes is rightfully his. “What a most fortunate coincidence has brought you here tonight, Shcherbina.”

Boris glare is pure menace. Despite the state of his health, Boris’ stare commands immediate silence, or so Valery at least thinks, a smile of appreciation flitting across his face.

Charkov however, remains unimpressed. “Yes, yes,” he says with a trace of irony, affectionately touching Valery’s thigh now. “You do not believe in coincidences – nor do I as a matter of fact. Still, your presence is very fortunate.”

“For whom?” Boris’ voice sounds harsh in Valery’s ears.

Charkov lifts an eyebrow. “For all of us?”

Boris regards them with suspicion and disdain. “What do you want?”

Valery doesn’t want to be a part of this ugly game, yet he’s playing his part all the same. Standing there, idle and paralyzed, fighting against the flashes of light his mind projects behind Boris’ form. What coward has he become?

“What could I possibly want?” Charkov repeats Boris’ words, one by one. The stoic calm is unnerving and Boris has never taken well to such behavior. “First of all, I want you to know what I want the most is to take care of both your well-being. How cruel it would be to see two old men being sent to a labor camp, especially since it can be so easily prevented. You wouldn’t even last two months with your state of health, broken and boneless, if at all. And then … we all know the ugly rumors what happens to those of your afflictions ...”

_ Rumors. _

Valery sees Boris’ jaw working, a clear indication of how upset he is. “And secondly?”

A heavy sigh, another sip of cognac, then Charkov’s free hand cups Valery’s face. “Perhaps a little addition to that precious memory of mine?” Charkov’s finger slips into Valery’s mouth, grazes along the front of his teeth so that Valery’s lower lip hangs obscenely open. “The fire in your eyes.”

Valery rephrases Charkov’s words in his mind.  _ The fire of humiliation. The sick pleasure of seeing others burn and fade away. _ Valery chokes and coughs as Charkov’s finger all of a sudden hits the back of his throat.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Boris lunge forward. Then, within a heartbeat, the hand around his waist is gone and the revolver is in Charkov’s hand, directed at Boris.  

Boris comes to a sudden halt. “Shcherbina, our nation’s brave and heroic savior. Oh, you would like that, I have no doubt about that. You’re clever, I grant you that – but after Chernobyl, your mind has become so beautifully predictable. Love is such a beautiful disadvantage, erasing all logic and cunning.”

Valery sees Boris’ fist clench at his side. “Go on, then. Shoot me. I am a dead man walking, so what does it matter in the end?” Boris rasps, taking a step towards them despite the silent warning.

A hand sweeps tenderly against Valery’s cheek.

Valery shakes his head but Boris is far too angry to notice such subtlety, taking another step forward.

“Ulana …” Valery cries out, at last, hoping that at least his voice will disrupt the angry maelstrom of Boris mind. It’s not always the case when he’s truly angered. “Ulana!”

Relief floods Valery as Boris freezes, staring incredulously at both of them. Valery watches Boris’ face transform in stages – disbelief; realization, then shock and anger.

“So … she is a part of this wretched madness?” Boris' eyes are fixed on Valery but it is Charkov who answers.

“Oh, Boris. When will you finally begin to understand that not everything is always about you?”

The arrow hit its mark, Valery sees it manifested in Boris’ eyes.

“Did you truly think I let such an opportunity slip?” Charkov shakes his head, a serene smile playing about his lips, sighing as if he’s drifting into pleasant memories. “Khomyuk. I should visit her someday again.”

Charkov’s fingers sweep over Valery’s face, from his cheekbone towards his lips, leaving a shiver in its wake. Despite Boris’ presence, Valery leans into the touch, not even realizing what he’s been doing until Charkov calls him out on it. “If I had known how desperate you’ve become for my attention, Legasov, I would have come sooner to bring some memories back to life.”

_ Why? _

Despite knowing about the complicated effects extended isolation and torture has on a victim’s mind, the way his own mind works and commands his body has become a maddening mystery. Apart from being fragile, vulnerable, there’s something else, something far more shameful, resurfacing just now. Becoming shamefully aroused by the touch of his worst enemy is not something he ever wishes Boris to know. It’s the one secret, not even Charkov knows anything about; yet by the way Boris looks at him, it’s obvious he knows.  _ He knows _ , or at least suspects.

“I’m sorry,” Valery says, pleading with his eyes.

_ There’s no other way, Borja. There isn’t. Perhaps there never was. _

Boris' mouth twists into a grimace.

With one hand pressed against the edge of the table to support him, Valery lowers himself down onto his knees, next to Charkov’s cigarette butt from before and in response, Charkov spreads his thighs to welcome him. It can’t get worse than it had been the last time, Valery tells himself, but no matter how often he feeds himself the lie he knows it will. Back then, Boris hadn’t been watching; hadn’t been forced to watch when Charkov took his pleasure from his mouth.

There’s no honor in Charkov, no kindness. And yet, Valery had never even thought his torture could be used for yet another crime.

Oh, what a fool he had been; what a naïve fool.

He’d been betrayed – and had betrayed Boris in turn, or so Valery thinks. It’s wretched as in his mind Boris’ voice begins to mingle with Charkov’s to an extent that he’s not certain what’s real and what is not.

Boris’ voice, real and undeniably there pierces through Valery’s clouded mind like an arrow. “Valery! Don’t. There must be –”

His eyes, once so piercing and full of certainty, shine with helpless desperation. It pains Valery heart to see him like this, broken and lost – and yet, it’s the only thing he can do.

_ ‘Every crime of mine is one you are guilty of.’ _

Valery looks at him, then averts his eyes, shaking his head.

There is no other option.

There’ll never be.

“Such affection. Perhaps, I should reconsider –”

Before Charkov has even finished his sentence, Valery’s intervenes. “No!”

Valery feels close to retching.  No matter what price he has to pay, he will not allow Charkov to ruin those precious memories he had of Boris; will not allow them to be besmirched. Valery has fed on these pleasant memories of solemn sighs for months. 

They are all that is left to him, perhaps they are the only reason he’s still alive. He would do anything, literally anything to prevent Charkov’s unspoken suggestion coming to life.

The look Boris gives him is devastating. “Valera … don’t!”

“Borja,  _ please _ .” He shoots him a pleading glance, letting the thunder cry out for him as no strength is left in his heart to scream.

When it had happened the first time, seven months ago, Valery hadn’t understood what this form of sick entertainment is truly about. Then, he had thought it was about them, about satisfying Charkov’s own degenerated lust, yes – but not this, never this.

_ How wonderfully naïve you were. _

Games of power and humiliation had been entirely absent in his former life, so how possibly could he have known? The world of lies and intrigues has never meddled with his own, and although science has always been infiltrated by politics, he had been mostly spared of the nuisance of greater schemes.

There’s no greater humiliation than this, Valery thinks as he is busying his shaking hands with the buttons of Charkov’s trousers noticing that his cock has already grown hard.

“According to my memory, Legasov may have forgotten his loyalty for a moment in the past; it’s refreshing to see that it was never completely abandoned,” Charkov says and in the wake of it, Valery has stopped what he’s been doing. “Go on.”

He follows the request, for the simple reason to save himself an even greater humiliation. As he kneels there, busy to free Charkov’s cock he feels his cat rubbing herself against his thighs a couple of times. He tries to shoo her away with his feet, but she remains unimpressed. Instead, she climbs onto his calves and settles down with a sonorous sigh of content.

Charkov places a hand the back of Valery’s head, touching him, stroking his hair in a mocking lover’s caress. Valery’s lips tremble, so do his hands as he brings them to his face to remove his glasses as he had done the first time.

Charkov stops his hands, the grip around Valery’s wrists like iron. “No.”

There’s a moment of confusion, followed by sudden understanding.

_ No! _

Every little detail seems perfectly orchestrated to increase his – their torment as if Charkov has been planned for many months.

Despite his constricting throat, Valery somewhere finds the strength to speak. “Oh that’s perfect, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Charkov says with a knowing smile, guiding Valery’s hands onto his thighs. Then, he looks away from Valery, at Boris and automatically Valery’s gaze follows. “Now, wouldn’t it be cruel to let a man at your age and with your health stand for how long it’ll ever take? Although you may say that I am, I am no cruel man.”

Boris snort is undignified. Charkov ignores it. “Please, seat yourself,” he tells Boris, gesturing towards the sofa, the revolver still in hand.

“What if I refuse?” Boris rasps.

“What if you refuse …” Charkov repeats and Valery feels his head being pressed downwards by Charkov’s other hand. “You are hardly in the position to refuse me anything,” Charkov’s voice has turned to steel, then he adds, much softer now. “How very unfortunate would it be if Legasov dies of asphyxiation? A presumably ugly death I have learned, yet it happens.”

Valery’s blood runs cold. Even with Boris there had been gagging, plenty of it. Every. Single. Time. There’s no way to prevent it from happening, no matter how hard he tries and therefore to die of asphyxiation, suffocated by his own spit and vomit with Charkov’s cock still down his throat does not seem unlikely at all.

Boris' face has turned crimson from anger. “You sick bastard! You fucking degenerate bastard!”  He yells, fists clenching and Valery’s certain he would throw something if he could, yet despite it, Boris obeys, for Valery’s sake he obeys the wretched command and Valery’s watches him sitting down.

Charkov chuckles, laying the revolver back onto the table. “I am intrigued that out of all people, you would know Khomyuk’s words.”

“Stop it!” Valery cries out in desperation.

Charkov tilts his head, bringing a finger under Valery’s chin to make him look up. “It’s all in your power to make it stop, Legasov. Didn’t you know?”

Valery holds Charkov’s gaze just as it is expected of him. He draws in a deep breath, steadying himself for whatever ugliness awaits him. He reaches into Charkov’s briefs, wrapping his hand around the erection, bending down his face. And then his eyes fall shut and his lips part and he brings them around Charkov’s cock, thick and swollen, without much hesitation. The taste, and the scent, the way Charkov’s fingers card through his hair … it all reminds Valery of the first time it happened, then when Boris wasn’t watching, hadn’t been forced to watch.

_ Boris. _

Valery doesn’t dare a glance. Instead, he tries to shut up his mind by going deeper, hoping that the discomfort of spluttering will divert his thoughts. He’s not mistaken but surprised, by the way he feels. Valery indeed finds sick comfort in his own punishment; in the way he feels his throat go tight whenever he moves down too deep, too fast, sucking until he gags. Only then Valery withdraws to breathe in, never daring to break the contact fully, the tip of his tongue always remaining just as he had been taught seven months ago. Valery’s eyes are open. He’s already crying, from the knowledge that Boris watches him bobbing his head, from the effort to keep his mouth open but makes no move to rub away the tears. It wouldn’t be appreciated, that he remembers well.

Although Charkov lets Valery initially dictate the pace he goes down, it’s foolish to assume that he’s in control of the situation. Whenever he takes too long for Charkov’s liking to catch his breath he can feel the fingers in his hair tense as a silent reminder; whenever he takes his mouth away, Charkov groans in disapproval with lips apart. In an obscene way, it’s thrilling that indeed he holds a certain power over this man.

The sound of Charkov’s clicking tongue brings Valery back to the present. “Every time I catch you looking away, I will pay Legasov another visit. Are you certain you want to risk that, Borja?” Charkov doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Yet to Valery it is as if the voice comes right from the darkness like a stab to his heart.

_ Borja. _

Valery wants to bite down, wants to hammer his fists against Charkov’s chest, his face until no strength is left in him and blood runs across the dirty floor, yet all he does is go down on him with his mouth, eyes filled with tears and hate.

Charkov strokes Valery’s cheek tenderly, wiping the falling tears away. “You did not believe my words when I told you just how wonderfully obedient Legasov was, Shcherbina, how very good he was but perhaps, you believe me now? He’s doing so very well.” Valery dares to risk a glance. At Charkov first, then at Boris from the corner of his eyes. The pain he sees takes his breath away; it feels as if what Boris has to witness speeds up the clock of life, ticking down inexorable.

_ Two weeks? _

Valery knows that he’s drooling, that saliva trickles down on his clothes, the floor whenever Charkov guides his head down until his nose is pressing against his stomach. He doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to care at all. All he sees are Boris’ watery eyes, the tremble of his jaw, hands curled into fists.  

_ Boris. Boris. Boris. _ His mind screams at him, drowning out the agony of his burning jaws for a second.

The hand in his hair goes tight, bringing his attention back. “Now, now we wouldn’t want your attention to be diverted, would we?”

Valery tries to shake his head, even manages to move, at least a little.  _ ‘The streets have become dangerous, or so I have been told.’ _

“Good. I expected no less.” Sick appreciation tints Charkov’s voice. Filthy and depraved, the manifestation of the man in all his ugliness. 

Valery lets out a cry. He’s been trying to keep silent, for the simple reason not to add to Boris’ torment. And yet he fails. He wouldn’t do it again, he wouldn’t’ and even as he thinks the words he knows he’s not able to keep his promise.

Valery vision doubles from the effort of kneeling. Charkov cups Valery’s cheek with his free hand, tracing Valery’s spread lips with his thumb, wet and sticky with saliva. There’s no challenge in Valery’s eyes when he looks up beneath his wet lashes, only the futile hope that it’ll be over soon and absolute defeat. Spit and tears mingle on his lips, tears of silent terror he cannot voice; tears for Boris’ suffering – there’s no greater humiliation in Boris being forced to watch him. He closes his ears to the lewd sounds his mouth makes, to Charkov’s little sighs of pleasure, or so at least Valery tries. He would close his eyes too, yet then, such actions always came with punishment. He simply doesn’t dare. Valery’s spindly fingers press against Charkov’s thighs just as he had been ordered to, the consequences of possible failure a constant reminder screaming in his head. He resigns himself to the encroaching darkness that comes with suffocation when Charkov holds him down, thighs beginning to shake.

That little warning is everything Valery receives before Charkov’s hips jerk and his cock hits the back of Valery’s throat. He tries to get away, to catch a breath, quite desperately so but the grip against his head is hard and unrelenting and all Valery can do is to fight against the urge to gag. It’s not quite successful, especially not when warm liquid fills his mouth, his throat and Charkov groans above him.

As soon as he’s caught his breath, Charkov pushes Valery’s face away, tucking himself back into his trousers before he lights a cigarette. Valery sees him inhale deeply, sees the ghost of a smile play about Charkov’s lips. He watches Valery in return, reaching down to trace his finger along Valery’s bruised and come-stained lips, then bends down his face so that their lips are almost touching. “You did so well.”

Valery gulps noisily, feeling his mouth fill again with the disgusting taste of bitterness. This time, he almost doesn’t manage to swallow it all down again, tempted to spit it right before Charkov’s feet. He doesn’t do it.

When Charkov finally lets go of him, Valery sits back on his haunches, quivering, bent and broken. Shame burns brightly upon Valery’s face, and tears of frustration drop onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to lift his gaze, doesn’t dare to cast a glance at Boris, afraid to see the repulsion in his eyes. All he wishes for is to take a shower and curl into a ball on his sofa afterward, drinking and crying until he can’t differentiate illusions from reality anymore.

Valery hears the rustling of clothes, then the sound of hurried footsteps. A moment and he’ll be gone, Valery dares to hope before he feels Boris’ arms wrap around him into a crushing embrace. If he had the change to he would have tried to prevent it with all his heart. He’s glad that the chance to refuse was taken from him. He buries his head in Boris’ shoulder, inhales his scent and feels the warmth of his skin against his cheek, lifting his trembling arms to return the embrace.

A cough forces their attention back. Not even a moment for pity’s sake was theirs to enjoy.

Boris grip on Valery intensifies. “What?” he asks, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Gentlemen –” Charkov wipes his hand on a tissue, inclining his head before he turns around and walks towards the door. Then, he halts and turns towards them once more, his smile turning into a smirk. “Until the change of shift, you’ll be alone,” he tells them, pulling back the sleeve of his shirt a little to look at his watch. “Two hours. Not a second more. Good night, Comrades Legasov, Shcherbina. Your efforts tonight are well appreciated – but cannot be rewarded. Certainly, you’ll understand.”

Then finally he is gone.

*

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to discard my original idea of how this story ends because I just couldn't stomach it - that's why there is the 3rd chapter. I'll put the original thoughts in the endnotes, but be warned: it's not nice. 
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter has one scene which may be extremely triggering to people suffering/having suffered from eating disorders. I'll mark the beginning of the scene with **[[** and the end with **]]** so that you can skip over it.

**CH03**

*

_Two hours, not a second longer._

In a world without time, the clock ticks mercilessly.

With their arms still wrapped around each other, they stare at the closed door and neither of them dares to speak, afraid that even a tiny whisper would bring the horror back.

A minute passes –

         – then another,

and, although Charkov is gone, his evil spirit seems to linger everywhere.

_1 h and 58 min._

Charkov’s scent and taste certainly do persist; as does his touch. Despite the actual absence of it, Valery can still feel the warmth of those trembling fingertips against his cheeks, flushed with shame and embarrassment underneath a layer of dried tears.

Everything starts with a flash of light in Valery’s mind, followed by Charkov’s sick words of praise that oh so easily blend with everything that Boris had whispered to him in those precious and rare moments when they truly were alone. He needs to divert his thoughts, he needs to focus on something else before it’s too late and he’s going to get caught in that vicious circle yet again. A wave of dizziness sweeps over Valery and despite being held by Boris, he begins to shake, struggling to draw air into his lungs. Usually, when it happens, he just draws up his knees against his chest and buries his head between them, hiding in his self-made cocoon until endless hours of rocking back and forth chasing the panic away.

_For hours…_

The touch Valery feels against his cheek is obnoxious. _‘You do so well.’_

“Stop it!” A whine bleeds from Valery’s lips.

“ _What?_ ” Boris grabs Valery by the shoulders, shaking him out of wherever his mind resides.

Valery lifts his gaze, seeing Boris confusion, his hurt. He had touched him on his cheek … hadn’t he?

“I – “ For months there have been so many things on Valery’s mind that he wishes to say to Boris; so many words and whispers, just everything he had never dared to say out loud. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, and all he manages to stutter is a useless apology.

Boris is gifted with such an eloquence Valery has never witnessed before. Why doesn’t he say something, anything at all, now that their faces are so close that he can feel Boris’ breath ghost over his own? Why doesn’t he take the opportunity to press a kiss into his hair as he used to do whenever Valery needed it the most? There had always been like a seventh sense to Boris  –

Valery’s train of thought is interrupted the moment Boris’ hand drops from Valery’s shoulder to his wrist, laying it across the back of his hand, squeezing gently. And then, after Valery has given him a ghost of a smile, Boris is tangling their fingers together, just as he had done in the car before the trial. It had only lasted for the briefest of moments, yet it’s still so prominently present in Valery’s mind.

The touch is all the non-verbal reassurance Valery needs. Nevertheless, he still finds it surprising that he’s the one to truly, actually break the silence.

“Do you believe him?” Valery asks, turning his face fully towards Boris.

Boris shakes his head, squeezing Valery’s hand again. “I don’t. Not that I care.”

Silence falls again and Valery sees Boris’ throat working. “Three months they told me. Three months – if at all.”

He doesn’t believe that Boris has three months left. Not after everything he’s seen tonight, the hollow cheeks, the trembling of his body, the inevitable decay.

“Three months,” Valery repeats, blinking in futile effort to fight back the tears. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have called, I shouldn’t … He made me do it –“

“I know. None of it is your fault, never was.” Where words fail Boris, he lets actions speak – so it had always been. Boris’ lips wander from Valery’s cheek down to his lips, close, so dangerously close to his mouth.

“Don’t,” Valery demands, evading the kiss by moving his head to the side, repulsed and disgusted by himself. The bitterness of Charkov’s seed still lingers on his tongue, all the more when he belches. He slips out of Boris’ embrace without excusing himself, making his way to the toilet as fast as he could, as this time he doesn’t manage to swallow it down. His stomach is churning, and his throat is tight and raw, his lips swollen.

 

**[[**

Valery crouches down on the dirty tiles, which have seen its last scrub months ago and bends over the toilet, spitting a mouth full right into it. It’s not enough, it hardly is.

What he’s about to do he hasn’t done this in ages. In fact, he hasn’t done it often at all – only when he couldn’t find rest because he was so drunk that sleep evaded him. It had helped then, perhaps it’ll help now …

Valery draws in a deep breath and lifts his index finger towards his mouth, not hesitating to push it further into his mouth until he hits the back of his throat with its tip. His throat, sore and overstimulated from before just needs a little scratch of his fingertip to trigger his gag reflex, entirely unsurprising after everything he’s gone through, Valery thinks, pulling his finger away the moment he feels bile and far more unpleasant bodily liquids rise up his throat. His other hand flies through his nose, pressing it close. That way, it had always worked best and was least disgusting.

In all the ugliness of vomiting, it’s strangely comforting to rid himself of Charkov’s seed and therefore, Valery does it yet again. He’s returning his finger, slick with saliva and retches into the bowel, the ugly noise echoing against the ceramic.

Being so used to live alone for years he hadn’t locked the door. Of course, he hadn’t.  

“Valery.”

_Go away._

A press of Boris’ hand against his shoulder, followed by the undignified sound of retching.

_GO. AWAY._

The hand remains, just as Valery’s memories persist.

_1 h 43 min_

Tears of another sort fill Valery’s eyes, tears of shame and frustration, dripping together with saliva into the bowl. No, he cannot do it, cannot bring himself to shoot Boris a glance across his shoulder. He doesn’t want to see the disgust in Boris’ eyes, didn’t wish to see the repulsion, least alone hear it out loud, nor does he wants Boris to see: the panic, the self-loathing; the hurt and denial in his eyes.

“Valery, listen.” Boris sounds so broken, so vulnerable and scared. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

_It isn’t._

_It’ll never be._

Valery remains silent.

Groaning, Boris kneels down behind Valery and immediately begins to gently rub Valery’s back until another wave of nausea breaks over him. When it finally subsides, Valery doesn’t move, doesn’t shrug, doesn’t do anything at all. There’s no strength left in him. He folds his arms across the toilet seat, head hanging between them just in case his stomach isn’t empty yet. All he can do is to surrender, hoping, that at one point Boris will relent.

Instead of the sounds of retching silent sobbing now fills the air. Boris’ hand wanders from Valery’s back towards his face, stroking back the damp hair from his sweaty forehead. He shouldn’t be doing it, Valery thinks, as certainly lose strands of it will stick to Boris’ fingers, yet at the same time, it means the world to him. A fact that does not necessarily make acceptance easier.

Boris’ hand continues to caress Valery’s hair in gentle motions, brushing it out of his eyes whenever it falls back, whilst his other hand persistently remained on Valery’s shoulder. Despite the situation – or rather exactly because of it, it’s oddly intimate, perhaps more than anything they’ve ever shared.

_1 hour 20 min._

“Come,” Boris at last says, when Valery’s helpless sobbing finally begins to cease. He wants to react, he really does but his body disobeys his mind’s command. He doesn’t move an inch. Not even his head rises to acknowledge willingness; he just whispers his apology to the dripping water, over and over again.

**]]**

“Don’t apologize, not for that, not for anything,” Boris tells him, voice firm but shaking underneath. Then, Boris brings his hands under Valery’s arms, pulling him back to his feet with much effort.

_There’s no strength left … in neither of them._

Valery doesn’t say anything at all but reaches for the sink to support himself, and only when Boris seems confident enough that Valery’s legs won’t give in, he finally lets go.

In the mirror, cracked and dirty, he sees the ghost of a smile flitter across Boris’ face, followed by a silent nod of understanding. Valery returns the nod, feebly enough.

Boris has always given Valery both time and physical space whenever he needed it most. Even back then, on the roof a lifetime ago, when they were nothing more than acquaintances brought together by fate.

Valery coughs before he throws two hands full of cold water into his face. Then, he brushes his teeth, looking at his own reflection, eyes going wide. His appearance is outright disgusting; his face is a bright red mess with bruised and broken lips, yet worst of all are the white spots of dried drool and come on his shirt. Without thinking twice, he pulls it over his head, throwing it onto the pile where all the other worn clothes lay. It’s been a while when he had done the washing last …

As a result of it, he slips another worn shirt over his head, though stained less obvious.

Back in the kitchen, Valery takes a mouthful of vodka directly from the bottle, gurgling, spitting it into the sink and lets the rest from the bottle run across his hands as if it’s disinfectant. Well, it’s not far from it, mixtures not dissimilar are used quite frequently in the lab.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Boris clearing the table: the pack of cigarettes, the bottle of cognac, even the cigarette ends from the floor – he’s throwing it all into the waste bin as if to remove all evidence of Charkov’s nightly visit. Nothing should serve as a reminder to the ugliness of Charkov’s actions, a consideration Valery appreciates with a heavy heart.

_Caring._

It’s not an attribute people would usually associate with Boris Shcherbina; it’s not exactly a character trait Boris usually would like to be attributed with.  

Then, something must have caught Boris’ attention as Valery sees his movements freeze. He turns around fully immediately, peaking at the table from behind Boris’ back. 

Where the bottle of cognac had stood a moment ago now a little piece of paper lies, brown and neatly folded, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent his heartbeat from speeding up.

Boris picks it up and begins to unfold it. Valery steps closer, chest almost brushing against Boris’ back to take a closer look.

In silence, they begin to read.

 

 

>       _—And when they’ll part?_
> 
>   
>  _—Oh, soon enough._
> 
>  
> 
> _So love appears secure to those who love._

 

Every word Valery reads feels like a stab to his heart; every breath as if it is his last.

Is one sort of torture not enough?

_It is not._

_It’ll never be._

Boris turns around to face Valery, the paper still in hand. “What is this?”

It’s impossible to hold Boris’ questioning gaze, eyebrows drawn tightly together. Valery looks down at the floor, shame creeping up his neck. “Brecht.”

“Damn it, I know that it’s Brecht. That’s not what I meant.” Boris slams his hand on the table.

Valery flinches at the noise as if struck, even though he knows that the anger isn’t directed at him.

Boris’ apology follows immediately after. “I’m sorry, Valery. My apologies, I didn’t –” he adds, softer this time and places a hand on Valery’s shoulder in reassurance.

Valery tenses at the contact, then sighs, looking back up into Boris' face. The words come only with effort out of his mouth. “It is the second half … he gave me the first part then .. I’m sorry,” Valery mumbles, beginning to recite the poem with hands twitching at his sides.

 

 

> _Indifferent to the sun and moon’s pale light_

> _They journey on, besotted with each other._
> 
> _What are you fleeing from?_
> 
>   
>             _—The world._
> 
>   
>  _—Where to?_
> 
>   
>  _—Wherever._
> 
>   
>  _You ask how long now have they been together?_
> 
> _Not long._
> 
>  

Valery rubs his eyes, ready to cry again. “My favorite poem, since my youth. He knows, Boris.” Valery brings his hands to Boris’ shoulders, fisting the fabric of his shirt as if to support himself.  “From somewhere he knows even that unnecessary detail.”

Boris sighs, deeper this time. “He knows everything,” Boris mumbles, wrapping his thin arms around Valery’s shaking form and begins to walk him towards the little sofa.

This time, Valery doesn’t pull away.

_55 min._

He knows that they are both dying. “It doesn’t matter.”

Boris groans from the effort of sitting down on the sofa, his face grimacing in discomfort. For Valery, it’s heartbreaking to see him like this. But when his cat jumps onto the sofa, settling right in Boris’ lap with a content purr Boris’ expression transform into a smile, soft and equally content as the cat’s stretch.

In response, Valery also smiles and sits down beside Boris, edging closer immediately. He burrows his face into Boris’ shoulder as he loves to do, drawing comfort from listening to the sound of his beating heart. Boris places his chin on top of Valery’s head in the way he loves it best and for a moment, they remain like this.

Although Valery’s flat isn’t exactly cold, Boris shifts suddenly and reaches for his coat, spreading it over them both and the cat, and Valery is thankful for it. Of late he’s always been sensitive to the cold to an unhealthy extent. With the coat spread over them both, Valery curls completely against Boris side, assisted by the constant press against his back.

Below the thick fabric, an arm sneaks around his waist when his own hand presses against Boris’ stomach. Valery closes his eyes and visibly relaxes, apart from the occasional shivers, knees drawn up against Boris’ legs, just as he had always loved to do it. He mumbles some incoherencies, and Boris makes a noise in agreement, pulling Valery even tighter against him. Valery shifts a little, enough that the coat starts to slip away from Boris body, which he immediately prevents. Beneath the shirt, Boris skin is so cold to Valery’s touch and it’s surprising that he doesn’t shiver.

This quiet existence of two dying men – survivors – drawing comfort from each other for the short amount of time that is still left to them. For a brief moment of contentment, Valery allows himself to be fooled by the illusion – just as he had allowed Vienna’s sparkling lights to fool him: this is how it is meant to be; how, perhaps, in another world, in another life they could exist like this, indifferent and unthreatened; be indeed granted such comforting happiness.

It is a world of quiet understanding. Words are unnecessary, at least for a while, until Valery remembers; the eagerness of his own whispers late at night, the sincerity in Boris’ voice, disarming him at once.

_20 min._

Valery takes a deep breath. “Boris …”

“Mhm?”

“I …” Valery’s voice is shaking. Such words he’s about to say have never come easily to him, least alone now, with all the knowledge he has. He knows Boris is dying, just like him. He cares, and he hurts, and he will never forgive himself if he shies away from telling the truth to the one who matters most in the ugly remains of his life. “I never told you; what you are to me. Never told you … that I love you.”

“Neither did I,” Boris says, cupping Valery’s cheek. “But I do, even if it took me a while to accept my own feelings for you. I love you, Valera. I always did.”

Valery notices the tremble of Boris’ hand first, then sees the wetness in his eyes. “That’s why you lied to me,” Valery says, throat going tight. He doesn’t expect an answer. He receives it regardless.

“Yes,” Boris fights against the tremors of his voice. “Four weeks.”

Valery cups Boris’ face in return and leans in. Although he wants to kiss Boris on the mouth, he can’t help himself to let his lips trail across his cheek, kissing the tears away, one by one until Boris’ eyes fall shut. Then, he kisses Boris’ closed eyelids as if the horrific visions can be chased away like this.

 _Chasing Miracles,_ Valery thinks, lips lingering against Boris’ eyebrow and as he murmurs comforting words, he feels Boris clutching to him, a weakness he so rarely allows, a weakness Valery willingly accepts. He kisses Boris’ neck, his hair, and finally settles his head against Boris’ chest again, wondering how he should go on, when in his heart he slowly begins to understand that in a month, Boris might be no more.   

So, for a little while, love indeed appears secure to those who love.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Alas ... and here we are, at the end of this story.** I would like to express my eternal gratitude to you who went with me on this rollercoaster of emotions; to you who read this story, left kudos, commented, cheered for me, put up with my whining and provided encouragement whenever I needed it. It means so much <3 ... Without realizing it, this story has become the most personal work I have ever written.
> 
> **The poem is Bertolt Brecht - Die Liebenden (The Lovers)**  
>  German: [B. Brecht - Die Liebenden](https://herzundverstand.blog/2017/10/24/die-liebenden-brecht/)  
> English: [B. Brecht - The Lovers](https://poetrysociety.org.uk/poems/tercets-on-love-the-lovers/)  
> It's one of my absolute favorite poems, and it just screams their story from every single line, actually in the original German version even more :( 
> 
> **The original ending was truly Satan's work...** Everything in Chapter2 is the same, with the difference that Charkov does not say the line about the two hours. He simply leaves after bidding them a good night. The moment Charkov steps out of the door two KGB agents enter the flat and arrest Boris, who's still holding Valery in a quite compromising embrace. Valery and Boris don't have the chance to speak to each other; don't have the chance to comfort each other ... and since Valery's judgment of Boris' state of health is quite accurate it's the last time they see each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Special rec: Listening to the Interrogation Scene on YT ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4xCbtkJht0 ) together with Siouxsie Sioux & Brian Reitzell - Love Crime (Hannibal soundtrack): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaWmM_2kB70 ... adds some extra feels. Just saying ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
